


About That Night

by BrightlyBound



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Hook-Up, One Night Stands, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trope Wizard Tournament 2019, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightlyBound/pseuds/BrightlyBound
Summary: Before he disappeared entirely through the kitchen door, Ginny's eyes dipped (almost) of their own accord to check out his bum. Heat rose to her already burning face, and she blinked hard to dispel the image her mind had immediately conjured, of him naked and sated and wrapped in her mismatched bedsheets." Written for the 2019 Tumblr Trope Wizard Challenge: Accidental Pregnancy. *WINNER: Best Romance, Best Angst, Best AU, Best Multichap, and Fan Favourite*





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Trope: Accidental Pregnancy  
> Prompt: We hooked up randomly at a party once and it turns out you are friends with my brother  
> Shout out to thedistantdusk who beta’d this fic like a boss, and to my hubby, who puts up with my love of Harry Potter fanfiction and gave this a read-through, too.

It was muddled and lukewarm, but Ginny threw back the remnants of her drink anyway and stumbled out of the writhing crowd, blood bouncing through buzzing veins, head hazy and spinning. She dropped the plastic cup into an overflowing bin, finished, and thought in mild, drunken disbelief, staring down at her empty hand, _what the actual fuck?_

This simply would not do. She was not _for a second_ supposed to be empty-handed at a party with free drinks.

Through horrible strobe lighting that pierced the smoky darkness, Ginny lurched dizzily in the general direction of the drinks table she’d come across on several occasions now. Electronic dance music boomed from several towering speakers, and the bass made her heart thrum and jump hard in her chest.

For a moment, she felt more alive than ever, and her breath caught.

_Another drink. Just get another drink._

Maneuvering as carefully as her inebriated body allowed around a heavily snogging couple, Ginny spied it only feet away: that glorious, beat up dining table littered with quaking liquor bottles. She started towards it, determined to get rid of this boiling in her lungs once and for all. Then she caught sight of Dean Thomas dragging his new boyfriend onto the makeshift dancefloor and stalled in surprise.

It didn’t hurt, seeing him so completely over her, but avoiding him at all costs just seemed like the proper, British thing to do. She skirted roughly between two protesting blondes, putting space and bodies between them. It’d been six months since they’d broken up, and she was happy for him, thrilled she hadn’t fucked him up. But would it have been so bad if she’d found someone to bring along to this thing, too, so that _he_ could see _her_ so completely over him?

_Damn it, damn it, damn it._

Her shoe caught on a wad of chewing gum, and she crashed out of her thoughts.

“Damn it!”

“Are you all right?”

A shiver flittered down her spine at the low, pleasant voice in her ear, and Ginny whipped around and craned her neck to meet the eyes of a tall, dark stranger. Her hair was in her face, and her vision had gone blurry around the edges, but this man seemed like _quite_ the specimen, even with concern drawing at his lips, and his glasses slipping down his nose.

“I… yeah, I’m fine. Just stuck.”

“Stuck?”

She nodded and pointed down to her foot. “I think I stepped in gum.”

The man winced apologetically. “Would you like some help?”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

He held out his hand, and she swallowed thickly as she slipped hers into it. His large, broad fingers wrapped around her smaller ones, and she willed herself to focus on getting out of this sticky situation rather than the strange and sudden influx of butterflies in her stomach.

With little fanfare, she wrenched her high-heeled shoe free and hobbled over to the dining table, assisted the entire way by her handsome savior. There was one point where he’d had to pull her against him, _thank you, empty beer can, for rolling into our path_ , and her heart was still hammering to be let out of its ribcage when she plonked down onto a wonky chair.

“Thanks,” she said, reluctantly letting go of his hand.

His smile seemed easy, and there was another flutter just behind her navel at the sight of it.

“You’re welcome.” He pointed to the liquor beside them. “Want anything?”

She hesitated. The thick fog that had settled in her brain was enough to last her a while longer, and she wanted to remember him and his sweetness in the morning. If she stopped drinking now, she just might.

“I probably shouldn’t.” The hem of her dress slid dangerously high as she crossed her legs and tugged off her shoe. “I’ve mixed _far_ too much together, too many cups, can’t remember how many. And it’s hot in here.”

The man’s gaze darted to her thighs, then back up, and he flushed, guilty, when he noticed she was watching him.

He cleared his throat. “I know just the thing. Wait here.”

She waved her gummy shoe at him and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He cracked a wide grin at her over his shoulder.

Before he disappeared entirely through the kitchen door, Ginny’s eyes dipped (almost) of their own accord to check out his bum. Heat rose to her already burning face, and she blinked hard to dispel the image her mind had immediately conjured, of him naked and sated and wrapped in her mismatched bedsheets. She let out a pitiful moan and pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks, trying in vain to cool herself down, but then he was back, holding out a tiny bottle of water and a wad of napkins. She took both gratefully, her face positively on fire.

“I’ve finally met my hero,” she said and took a mouthful of the cool, refreshing water.

Something in his expression flickered, but it was gone before she could analyze it.

“Hero?” he said tightly.

 Water clung to her lips, and she wiped her mouth along her wrist. He stared at her without blinking, his face closed off and half-hidden in shadow.

Ginny shrugged. “Everyone could use one now and again.”

She’d had a hero once, a _real_ one from an elite tactical unit complete with a sniper rifle and a clear shot, one she never did get to meet, even after the dust settled. They’d explained to her that revealing his identity would be a security risk, and that was fine; she didn’t want to put anyone in danger. It was enough knowing he was out there, roaming the streets and ridding the world of evil. But anytime she revisited That Night, and the breath leaving Fred’s lips, and the needles of pain that erupted over her skull as she was forcibly dragged away from him by her hair, all she could think of was an alternate reality in which her hero did not exist, where Tom Riddle continued to terrorize the country, where she did not survive.

“Well, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he said adamantly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

She cocked a brow at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Harry.”

“I’m Ginny.” She would’ve held out her hand for him to shake, but it seemed silly, considering how he’d helped her, and pressed her into his side, if just for a moment. “Don’t let me hold you up,” she said, nodding towards the dancefloor.

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t dance.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“Apparently being your hero,” he said dryly.

She began to pick at the wad of gum on her shoe with the napkins he’d provided her, barely holding back a smile.

“Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night.”

“Not with this view, no.”

It took a second for his words to register. When they did, Ginny nearly snapped her neck to look up at him. His expression was a combination of stunned and shy. He clearly hadn’t meant to say what he had, not aloud anyway.

“Are you drunk?” she asked him bluntly.

“Barely,” he said with a wince. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“No, don’t apologize,” she said. “I like what you said.”

The instant the words left her mouth, the air around them became stifling and electric charged. A tense muscle jumped in his jaw, and Ginny stared, spellbound.

“Are you here with anyone?” he said, his voice nearly an octave lower and floating over her like a gentle caress.

“No.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, drawing his gaze to her neckline. “You?”

“No,” he said. “I just moved here, from London.”

“Needed a break, did you?”

“It’s quiet here,” he agreed.

There was a roar from the crowd of dancers as one song transitioned to another, more popular one. Ginny snorted.

“Not _here_ , here, obviously,” he finished.

“I lived in London for a bit.” She paused and thought about Fred again. “Didn’t care for it much.”

Ginny concentrated hard for a moment, hoping to bury the past again, and yanked most of the offending glob from the bottom of her shoe. She slipped the heel back on, and stood up quickly. Too quickly, for she swayed and would have stumbled, if not for Harry catching hold of her arms.

She was nose to chin with him, even in heels, and before she knew it, she was mouth to mouth with him, kissing him for a full heartbeat before he began to kiss her back. It was all soft, gliding lips and teasing nips, and _god_ , the feel of his stubble, long enough not to be overly prickly, felt so lovely against the inside of her palm.

_It’d feel even better between my thighs._

Her insides pooled to jelly at the thought, her bones and ligaments mush, and whatever was left of her was a pile of useless goo; someone was going to have to scrape her off the floor at this rate. Ginny took utmost precaution and wrapped her arms around Harry’s neck to keep herself from sinking if her knees were to give out, and Harry tightened his hold on her in kind.

When they pulled away from each other, Ginny dropped back into herself and remembered exactly where she was, and that her brother had people everywhere. But then Harry rested his forehead against hers and looked at her with the most striking pair of green eyes she’d ever seen, and how exactly was she supposed to concentrate on getting them out of here now?

“You’re beautiful,” she said to him.

A breath of laughter fluttered from his perfect lips. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

Ginny didn’t need veneration in regards to her looks. She did, however, want to tease him a little.

“I dunno, maybe?”

This earned her another laugh, and Harry skated a hand up her back, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and tilted her chin up to press his smiling mouth to hers. “You’re beautiful.”

The next time they broke apart, she leaned against him so that every inch of her was touching him: toes and knees and pelvis and chest. Her whole body was tingling with anticipation, and she hoped she was enticing enough for him to take home.

“My flat’s just up the road.”

“That’s… interesting information.” He drew away from her enough to run a hand through his fringe, momentarily revealing an interestingly shaped scar just above his brow. It left his hair in such a magnificent disarray, as if he’d just been thoroughly fucked…

She clamped her thighs together for some respite.

“Come home with me.”

“Are _you_ drunk?”

“A little,” she answered truthfully.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or that I’m pressuring you, or-”

She almost choked on a laugh. What an endearing _pillock_.

“No one can make me do anything I don’t want to do. I learned that lesson the hard way, and here I am. Come home with me.”

He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, so she helped him along. One kiss on the tip of his chin, a nibble at his earlobe, a tiny love bite just beneath his pulse point…

“ _Christ_ ,” he groaned, sinking his fingers into her hair and tearing her gently away. He brought his mouth back to hers for one searing second, kissed her so thoroughly she saw stars behind her eyelids, and murmured, “You’re mad.”

“You’re not the first to say so.”

His eyes were piercing as he studied her, scanning her face with utmost scrutiny. “Do this often, then?”

She bit her lip as a burst of nerves hit her like a speeding lorry. “No, never.”

“ _Never_?”

She could do nothing to stop the blush that flared up her neck and settle on her cheeks at his implication. “No, I mean… I’ve never been with anyone I just met.”

“Right,” he said in a sigh that ghosted over her flushed face. He bent towards her, grazed his lips along the apples of her cheeks, and hovered over her mouth. “You’re mad,” he repeated. “This is mad.”

“I know.” She nudged her nose with his. “Are you going to take me home now?” She tried to sound casual and confident, but her traitorous voice trembled.

“Only if you want me to,” he said.

“Please.”

~.*.~

All she could think was _ow_ , and _that_ was rather the understatement.

Her head throbbed as she turned away from the sunlight glaring at her in vicious slits across her face. Last night had been… so much. Too much. She smacked her desert dry lips together and grimaced at the smell of her own breath. God, _god_. This happened every time, and yet here she was, _again_ , having to refrain from making any movements until the overwhelming urge to vomit mostly passed.

She tried to think, then decided against it. Her brain was clunking along too slowly to be of much use at all. Still, it wasn’t long before Ginny noticed that the spot beside her was cold and empty…

Gloom blossomed in her chest, heavy and malevolent, as she staggered out of bed, every muscle in her body furiously protesting. She fumbled on her wrinkled housecoat and hurried to the loo just across the hall, stomach churning, and kneeled gingerly before the toilet.

Throwing up was the _worst_.

“Good morning,” came a cheerful voice from the doorway. 

Ginny didn’t bother to grace her flat mate with even a glance.

“Not now, Hermione,” she moaned.

“Did you have an enjoyable evening?”

Ginny doubted she could forget the latter part of her night anytime soon, and even though she was on the verge of being terribly sick, she fought to keep a smile from her face.

“The _best_ , actually, thanks for asking.”

“I hope you drank enough for the entire year.”

She could hear the thinly veiled venom dripping from Hermione’s lips but chose to ignore it.

“Hardly,” Ginny said, finally managing to look up. Hermione had her arms crossed against her chest, glowering down at her. “And if I get one more lecture from you, I swear I’ll—”

Ginny did not get to finish her sentence. She retched into the toilet instead.

Several minutes later, she felt a cold compress against her forehead and a wave of affection for her best friend.

“Thanks,” she croaked, pressing her eyes shut as tears slid down her cheeks.

It’d be a year next weekend, but it still felt just like yesterday…

Hermione made a small, sympathetic noise and ran her free hand over Ginny’s knotted hair. “Anytime.”

Ginny showered, dressed in worn denims and a loose-fitting t-shirt, and ate a hastily put-together breakfast of toast and leftover ham while standing over the kitchen sink. Hermione protested, at one point even tried physically pushing her into a chair at their tiny dining table, but Ginny was running terribly late.

“I hate that George has you working all day Sunday,” she said, handing Ginny her battered mobile phone and small, bright blue wristlet.

Ginny laughed. “You sound like Mum. And it’s nowhere near ‘all day.’” She looked around the floor of their messy living room in search of her favorite worn flats. She found them under the little black dress that had been so hastily discarded the night before and easily stepped into them.

“It looks a bit like a hurricane came through here,” Hermione said, eyes lingering on the piles of scattered clothes. She sighed. “I go to Ron’s, and I clean. I come home, and I clean.”

 Ginny smirked. “Now you _really_ sound like Mum.”

 Hermione grimaced.

 “It’s mostly mine,” said Ginny, rueful. She always did have trouble picking up after herself. “Just leave it, and I’ll do it after dinner tonight.”

 “It’s alright. I’ve got nothing to do until Ron swings by to get me.”

 Ginny hugged Hermione at the door. “You’re a lifesaver, you are.”

 Hermione hugged her back, eyes sparkling. “You owe me for this.”

 “Whatever you want,” Ginny agreed.

She caught a glimpse of Hermione’s victorious expression as she turned back to wave at her from the ground floor. Ginny felt an irrational stab of fear.

“I’d like an explanation, actually,” Hermione called down, casually leaning over the balustrade, the mischievous look on her face rivaling that of George’s.

“Okay,” Ginny replied cautiously. “Of what?”

“Of what transpired between you and the man I saw sneaking out of the flat at eight this morning.”

Ginny’s face flooded with color. She was never going to live this down. “Fuck.”

~*~

From the time she arrived at Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, to the moment she flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED, Ginny did not have a single thought that was unrelated to work. She operated the register when Verity was otherwise indisposed, kept the shelves straightened and stocked, and assisted customer after customer in choosing the right Whiz-Bang for their budget. It was the busiest Sunday she’d ever worked, and she should have seen it coming.

She slumped against the door, unpeeling her shirt from the base of her sweaty spine. Verity caught her attention from the register, waving a thick wad of colorful notes.

“I think we made nearly as much as we did New Year’s Eve!”

Ginny did not respond, throwing the shop assistant a hard smile as she trudged to the backroom in search of the broom and dustpan. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t make Verity out to be an utter clot. The one year anniversary of That Night was days away; people had been slaughtered at her football game, her brilliant brother Fred included, and it was sickening to think that they were making money off of it.

This is what they’d wanted, this is what they’d spent years perfecting, these fireworks that lit the sky like a thousand suns, and they could not celebrate their success, not this time.

_Fred would be proud._

The _bang_ of the backroom door slamming shut behind her made her jump. Her knee erupted in pain, and she became immersed in the memory once again…

Everything went out-of-focus. Her ears filled with high-pitched ringing, then screaming. The smell assaulted her nostrils next, all sulphur and charcoal and smoke. Acid was climbing up her throat. She coughed, gagged, flailed until she slammed her arm hard against the wall. And then, in an instant, it all went away, and Ginny was left crouched on the floor, shaking, crying.

The vision of Fred’s dead eyes stayed with her for a long time thereafter.

Half an hour later, done picking up shop, Ginny hauled herself into Angelina’s truck and waved goodbye to Verity through the half-opened window as if nothing had happened.

“How was work?” Angelina said by way of greeting as they ambled along a charming, cobbled street.

“Fine.”

A heavy silence settled over them, a departure from their usual jovial and loud weekly trip to the Burrow. The music was so low today that Ginny strained to hear it, and there was an odd look on Angelina’s face as she concentrated on the road ahead.

Ginny waited. Angelina obviously had something to say, and the outspoken woman hardly ever let her thoughts go unheard.

Ginny glanced at the clock on the dashboard, marking the time.

“How did it go last night?” Angelina blurted after a stretch.

Ginny glanced at the clock again. “Seven minutes,” she murmured, impressed. “I thought it’d be four, maybe five tops.”

“What?”

“What?

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Did you hear me?”

“Hear…?”

“The question I asked you!”

Ginny shook her head and relaxed into her seat, crossing a leg beneath her thigh. This was more like it.

“I said, _how did it go last night_?”

A cog snagged, clicked, and Ginny stiffened, blood rushing to her head at what she hoped was an innocent question.

“I uh… had a wonderful time,” she said carefully, avoiding Angelina’s hawk-like eyes. “Thanks for taking me.”

There was a short pause, then, “Oh my god.”

Ginny cringed.

“Ohmygod, you _didn’t_!”

Ginny tried to school her features into one of mock bewilderment. “Didn’t what?”

Angelina glowered at her. “Don’t try that look on me! Don’t you remember who I’m married to?”

For the second time that day, Ginny hung her head in embarrassment and buried her face in her hands.

“How?” she mumbled through her fingers.

“How what?”

“How do you know?”

“Ginny,” Angelina said in a sigh, “we were at _Lee’s_ house, your brother’s _best friend’s_ house. Someone we knew was bound to see you. I wouldn’t have believed any of it myself if I hadn’t heard about it from Alicia, and Oliver, and Katie.” She threw her an exasperated look. “And then I got your text. Your _text_! ‘Met up with a friend. Getting a ride home.’ I mean, really? _Really_?”

Ginny winced and massaged her throbbing temples with nimble fingertips. What was she going to do now?

The proverbial cat was out of the bag. She could deny that anything untoward had happened, she could say she’d stopped by a pub on the way home, had a drink and chips with the guy, and then gone home alone. But she couldn’t lie, not to Angelina, and certainly not to Hermione, who would undoubtedly pester her later on that evening about this very subject.

Before she could divulge anything, however, she had to know, “Did you tell him? Did you tell George?”

Angelina made a noise of outrage. “You know I wouldn’t!” Ginny looked up at her, equal parts thankful and relieved. “But I give it two, maybe three days _max_ before George finds out.”

“What? _Why_?” she whined, slouching against the door and letting her forehead _thunk_ against the window.

“Lee’s house!” Angelina reiterated. “George’s best friend’s house! Everyone who was there knows someone who knows Lee or George.”

They were almost at the Burrow now, judging by the amount of trees flashing by, all bathed in late afternoon sunlight. She exhaled, fogging the window for a moment. For the first time that day, Ginny finally allowed herself to sink into the warm, fuzzy memory of the late night (and early morning) she’d shared with the green-eyed stranger.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“How was it?” asked Angelina.

“Awkward,” Ginny answered honestly. “But just at first, just for a minute. And then it was good.” A giggle escaped her lips before she could smother it down. “Really, _really_ good.”

She watched the scene play over in her mind’s eye, toes curling, a spike of heat bursting deep in her abdomen. They’d gone to her flat at her insistence; Ginny had forgotten the state she’d left it in but hadn’t cared once his mouth was on hers again. Then they’d stumbled onto her couch (partly from of their alcoholic daze, partly from the dozens of shoes that littered her living room floor) where he did nothing but kiss her and touch her, until he found every one of her weak spots, every one of her turn-ons, until she was literally begging him for more. And he had delivered, again and again and again…

“He was attentive, and sweet, and fit, so bloody fit I wanted to _strangle_ him.”

Angelina sniggered. She turned onto the Weasley property, and Ginny sat up so her head wouldn’t bump the window from the rough trail.

“I’m glad that you didn’t kill him,” Angelina said wryly. “Although, it would’ve been a great story- hey!”

Laughing uproariously, Angelina jerked the steering wheel to avoid Ginny’s swatting hands.

“Are you going to see him again?” she asked once Ginny had settled back into her seat.

“Probably not. We didn’t get to talk much.” She tried for indifference even though her stomach clenched from regret. “Anyway, he was gone before I woke up.”

She should have asked him for his number during the lull between their first and second time, in which they’d done nothing but smile at each other reverently as they caught their breath.

Angelina watched Ginny carefully as they passed the orchard and crept up the last hill before the Burrow. “I could try to find out more about him for you, if you’d like.”

The smile Ginny threw at Angelina did not reach her eyes. Even if she managed to track the man down, Ginny was rather resigned to this one-night stand business, and she wasn’t going to chase after someone who didn’t want to be caught.

“I’ll think about it.”

When they entered the Burrow, Bill was in the sitting room, rubbing the back of his heavily pregnant wife. Ginny kissed him and Fleur both on each cheek then turned to hug George after he released Angelina. She ducked into the kitchen, waved stiffly at Percy and his new girlfriend Audrey, who were completely engrossed with each other and barely noticed her entrance, before being embraced hard by her mother.

Mum thrust her out at arm’s length and looked her over with a critical eye.

“You look peaky today. Are you alright? Have you been eating? Of course you haven’t, not _properly_. You really should move back in, dear. Enough with that drafty, overrated flat. You can save up for a cottage just outside of town. There’s one for sale a few minutes away. I reckon you can afford it soon enough if you just-”

“Mum, Mum, _Mum_.” Ginny took her mother’s face in her hands and forced her to look into her eyes. They smiled at one another. “I’m fine, I love you, and _no_.”

Her mother patted her on the cheek. “It was worth a shot,” she said. “And I love you, too.”

Ginny helped to complete dinner, as she did every Sunday, donning a frilly apron and tying her hair up into a messy ponytail. She covered the roast pork with foil to keep it warm as soon as it left the oven, stirred the buttered carrots and set them artfully onto a serving platter, and dumped heavily seasoned roasted potatoes into two heaping bowls. In the process, her father came quietly in through the back door, kissed her on the head, and filched a small spud. She was nearly finished setting the table when she heard Ron’s beat-up Ford Anglia come roaring over the hill and towards the house.

“Right on time, per usual,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes.

Her mother ignored this and peered into the oven, where three treacle tarts were browning up nicely. “This should be finished soon.” She took off her apron and smoothed her hair into place, then held out her hand towards Ginny. “Come now, take off that apron and go brush your hair.”

“Brush my hair?” she said absentmindedly. She did a silent headcount of the place settings. “Mum, why do we have twelve-?”

But she never got to finish that sentence. The back door flew open, crashing and rebounding against the wall, and Ginny, along with every other occupant in the room, jumped a foot in the air. Hermione stood in the open doorway, her eyes frantic and searching, until she caught sight of Ginny.

“Bloody buggering hell,” she said, sounding eerily like Ron. “Don’t you ever answer your mobile?”

Ginny’s eyes widened as Hermione grabbed her hastily by the arm and pulled her towards the stairwell.

“What in the world…?” Mum said as they dashed past her.

“So sorry, Mrs. Weasley. It’s wonderful to see you again. And you, Mr. Weasley.” She nodded her head in greeting to a stunned Percy and Audrey, then whirled back to Ginny and hissed, yanking her up the stairs, “Have you looked at it at all? Your mobile? I’ve only left you twenty messages!”

“I don’t think I’ve had a chance since last night, actually,” she said as they came upon her old bedroom.

Hermione wrenched her in and shut the door behind them, looking the very picture of harried.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Hermione, what-?”

“The bloke… the bloke you were with last night. What’s his name?”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I mean, yes, of course we can, but _I need to know his name_. I need to know his name so that _you_ can know if Ron’s new partner is the same bloke you shagged last night.”

“I… wait- _what_?”

“I think it’s him! I think he’s Ron’s partner, and he’s downstairs-”

“ _Downstairs_?” she squeaked.

“-and I only caught a glimpse of him this morning so I can’t be sure, but he mentioned going to that stupid house party last night while we were on the way over, and I tried to text you to find out if his name is the same as the name of the guy you were with last night, but you never answered me back! If the names match up- _if the names match up_ \- then it must be the same bloke. Ron’s new partner must be your shag partner.”

_Oh, fuck._

The possibility that Ginny had a one-night stand with her brother’s colleague broke her out in a cold sweat, and something sick swirled in the base of her stomach. She pressed a trembling hand to her head and stared at Hermione.

 “His name’s Harry,” Ginny whispered.

The color drained from Hermione’s face, enough confirmation for Ginny.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins. “Fuck!” she cried.

“Ginny,” Hermione said weakly. “What are you going to do?”

Ginny threw herself onto her old single bed, the springs protesting from months of disuse. What _was_ she going to do? She had slim pickings when it came to options: she could climb down the drainage pipe and make a run for it, she could have Hermione distract everyone in the kitchen, sneak into the sitting room, steal someone’s— _anyone’s—_ keys, and hightail out of there… or she could go with her third and final choice, the I’m-An-Adult choice: force a smile, have dinner with her family and their guests, and get the night over and done with. (Though, if she was completely honest with herself, she did not possess enough luck in the entire galaxy for that plan to go swimmingly at all.)

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“I have to go down, don’t I?” she said miserably, staring up at the familiar cracks of her childhood ceiling. She spotted the one that looked like a horse and drew strength and resolve from it. “This is my punishment. This is my punishment for thinking with my vagina.”

Hermione let out a peal of laughter. “You know what they say: The vagina wants what it wants.”

When Ginny descended the stairs and stepped into the kitchen, wringing her apron in her hands, her hair shining down her back from its recent brushing, only her father, Fleur, Percy and Audrey (who hadn’t moved since her arrival), were seated. Her entrance went mercifully unnoticed long enough to get a good look at Ron’s new partner.

It took her maybe half a second to confirm, without a doubt, that the man she’d had a leg over with last night was standing in her parents’ house, mere feet away from her. She recognized the hair immediately, raven black and sticking up in the back, and the line of his shoulders, shoulders she’d gripped hard in ecstasy, bitten down upon, rested her head on. Her eyes had just run the length of his body a second time when he turned.

His eyes met hers and lit up in instantaneous recognition, his mouth dropping open for a tick before snapping shut.

One of Hermione’s cool and reassuring hands was on her back, pushing her forward as the other ripped the apron out of Ginny’s fists.

She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans as Ron bounded over like an overexcited puppy. His new friend dutifully followed, though with much less enthusiasm.

“Harry, this is my little sister—”

“ _Little sister_ ,” Harry muttered with a subtle shake of his head.

“—Ginny. Ginny, this is Harry Potter. He’s my new partner on the service.”

Ginny stuck out her hand stiffly.

“Hi,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 _Don’t say anything, don’t_ say _anything,_ she thought frantically, hoping her brainwaves would supersede his.

But she needn’t worry. Harry played along perfectly, took her hand in his like they’d never crossed paths. His grip was as warm and comforting as she remembered, covering her smaller one almost entirely. She shivered as she thought of the two of them intertwined even more tightly than their hands were now.

“The pleasure’s mine,” he said, all innocence and polite smile.

Hermione made a strangled noise from behind her, and Ginny hastily withdrew her hand to turn an unexpected bout of hysterics into a coughing fit. She retreated to her seat at the table, where her mother patted her roughly on the back. When Harry sat across from her, grinning, she looked hastily down at her plate, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

“So, Harry,” her mother started up as soon as the roast had been sliced and served and the dishes began to float around the table. “Ron tells me you’ve been on the force for two years already.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” he said as he took a single bread roll from a deep basket and passed it along to Ron.

Mum looked positively pleased by his manners. “You must forgive me for saying this, dear, but when I first met you, I was worried they hadn’t put Ron with someone a bit older, a bit more experienced. It makes me uneasy, his profession, so it’s good to hear he hasn’t been stuck with a complete novice.”

Ron’s ears turned maroon, and he began to protest, but Ginny cut him off and pointed from her mother, to Harry, and back again as it dawned on her. “Wait, when did you two meet?”

“Last week,” she answered jovially. “Ron forgot his lunch, and you know he’s saving up for Hermione’s—”

“ _Mum_!”

“—er… birthday present? Yes, yes, that’s right.” Ginny refrained from pointing out that Hermione’s birthday was over four months away. “Anyway, they were just coming out of a meeting with that dashing new Commissioner Shacklebolt, whom I got to meet, as well,” she added in excitement, “and I invited them both to dinner. Of course, the Commissioner had prior commitments, he’s such a busy man.”

“And you didn’t have any?” Ginny turned to Harry casually while taking the bowl of potatoes from Audrey and spooning some onto her plate. She passed it to her mother. “Prior commitments?”

Besides the exchanging of names, and the encouraging words they’d shouted to one another in the throes of passion, they hadn’t gotten around to discussing their personal lives last night. Ginny was curious and much more anxious than she ought to have been as she awaited his answer, her lungs lead-filled as she struggled to remain impassive.

"Oh, yes, Harry, have you? Any girlfriends-or boyfriends—”

“Er,” he said.

“—that you care to share with us?” Mum finished.

He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Ginny took pity on him. “You don’t have to answer my mother, Harry.”

“ _Excuse_ me, young lady,” Mum said with a hint of a glare.

“I don’t mind,” he said, taking some potatoes for himself. Everyone was served and began to eat, the din in the room lowering only slightly. Harry regarded Ginny instead of her mother as he said, “No girlfriend. Haven’t had one since I joined the service.”

Mum was absolutely beside herself at the news. “A handsome man like yourself, and no girlfriend?”

Harry took a bite of pork and chewed it slowly, his cheeks ruddy. He swallowed hard. “I’ve… been busy. Working.”

"He finally went out last night,” said Ron, budging into the conversation. “To Lee’s house. We would’ve gone, too,” he indicated himself and Hermione with a forkful of food, “but we’d made plans with her parents, and I had to cancel on them last weekend when Harry and I were called out unexpectedly.”

“They understood,” Hermione said, patting Ron’s arm.

"Was that you, then?” came George’s voice from down the table. “At Lee’s last night? I _knew_ you looked familiar. I think it was Oliver who introduced us the first time ‘round?”

Ginny froze with her hand tight around her glass of water. Had _everyone_ met Harry before she had?

“Er, yeah,” Harry answered, looking down the way.

“You know Oliver?” Ginny demanded. She’d known Oliver since she was in _nappies_. “How?”

“My mate Neville is his cousin,” Harry said, glancing back at her. “I met him a few years ago at a birthday party, I think.”

Ginny sagged back in her chair, body going numb and brain slugging to a stop. The world was too small, she decided faintly, and alcohol wasn’t liquid courage, but liquid _stupidity_. How had she thought this wouldn’t get out, her one night of recklessness? She wondered in vain how long it would be before her mother found out, before she had to do some serious damage control, before she was locked up in Ron’s attic bedroom and never allowed out again.

  _I’m a grown woman_ , she thought firmly, straightening up. _I’m a grown woman with idiot tendencies and a lovely, lonely vagina. A vagina that hasn’t had company over in a very long time and deserved a night out._

Was she really giving her vagina its own entity?

_Lock me in the loony ward and throw away the key._

“Dean was there, Ginny,” George called over to her, head cocked and smile verging on cruel.

Ginny stiffened and threw a pleading look at Angelina, who frowned apologetically.

“Did you happen to see-?”

Angelina cut him off. “I don’t think it matters, George.”

“The nerve of him!” said Mum incredulously. “He should’ve known you’d be there!”

“I’m sorry, who’s Dean?” said Harry, turning towards Ginny with a quick, jerky movement.

Ginny looked at the fork in her hand and wondered if the tines were sharp enough to stab herself with. If she aimed for a major artery, she could die within minutes, and _wouldn’t that be a perfect exit?_

"My ex.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“He’s gay now,” Mum inserted mercilessly.

Audrey’s silverware clattered against her plate beside her.

“Oh my god,” said Ginny, briefly shutting her eyes in horror.

“What? It’s _true_ , Ginevra.”

“First of all,” Ginny started, carefully placing her fork down to face her mother with blazing eyes, “he’s _bisexual_ , and he didn’t just become it out of the blue.” The room was deathly silent, and she stood up before she even realized what she was doing. “Second, he stayed with me for _months_ after Fred died even though we were on the verge of breaking up right before That Night happened. We were _miserable_ together,” she said. “He didn’t break my heart, we just fell apart. And if you have anything to be angry about, it should be that the two of us didn’t stay friends.”

Ginny tossed her napkin onto her plate and swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

She hurried to the back door, blinking her stinging eyes furiously, and wrenched it open.

“Are you happy, George?” Bill said heatedly. “Feel better now?”

“ _Bill_.” Dad’s voice was a low warning.

She choked on a sharp sob before she slammed the door behind her.

.~*~.

It was nearly pitch black out when he finally approached her. He’d been watching her for some time now, his figure just in her peripheral vision as she rocked on the old tire swing at the edge of the garden.

“They couldn’t’ve sent you,” she contemplated aloud, pressing her temple against the frayed rope and closing her eyes, the wind lifting her hair to and fro. “They don’t know about us, save for Hermione, and probably Angelina, but the rest of them… they don’t know that we…”

“Yeah,” he finished quietly.

“Why are you out here?”

“Because I want to be.”

Her heart stumbled at his words.

“You left.” She finally looked at him. He was closer now, an arm’s length away when she swung back, a few inches when she swung forward. He had a rueful look on his face. “You left this morning, and I thought, maybe, since we’d had such a good time…”

She cinched her mouth shut. She didn’t want to sound pathetic, or desperate, or lonesome, but she’d promptly sunken into a depression, and all she could think about were sad, painful things.

Harry caught the ropes above her head with both hands, bringing her to an easy stop. “I left my number in your phone.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but never in a million years would she have guessed _that_.

 _I really have to check my mobile more often,_ she concluded inwardly before another, more pressing thought suddenly occurred to her.

Ginny stared up at Harry in confusion. “But… wait. How could you have done? My mobile—it’s password protected!”

“I watched you punch it in on the way over to your flat last night.” He shrugged as she gaped at him. “It’s only four numbers.”

“I… wow, okay.”

“Still, it was a bit cowardly of me. I should’ve asked you out last night.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “We _did_ have that break between the first and second time.”

His face lit up with mirth. “I thought that was after the second time and before the blow job, which was fantastic, by the way. Kudos to you.”

She laughed hollowly, and he moved his hands to cover hers on the ropes.

“Harry,” she protested thinly, even though she moved her fingers to interlace with his. “Everyone will see.”

“Nah, too dark,” he said, shifting closer. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, and her eyelids felt inexplicably heavy. He pressed his lips against hers, just for a second, just long enough for her frozen insides to begin to thaw. “Go out with me? Next Saturday?”

“The Anniversary. I can’t.”

There was a flash in his eyes, and he clenched them closed. “Right, how could I forget?” When he opened them again, they were steady and bright as ever. “What about Saturday after next?”

“Okay,” she said, and he kissed her again.

The trip back home was very quiet. She caught a ride back to her flat, as she did every Sunday, with Ron at the wheel and Hermione at his side. The seat beside her, usually empty, was taken up by Harry, his right knee burning against her left, and his hand, every now and again, straying over hers in the darkness.

“Thank you,” she said when he held the door open for her. He shut it behind him, and she stared at him. “What’re you doing?”

He inclined his head back towards the car. “Giving them a moment.”

Her nose crinkled in revulsion. “Oh.”

“Have you checked your mobile yet?” he asked shortly, smiling at her.

She shook her head, struggled with her wristlet, and tugged out her bulky mobile. She unlocked it with sure fingers and beamed. The first screen that popped up was Harry’s new contact file.

"Call me,” he said.

“I will.”

“No,” he said patiently. “I mean right now.”

“Right-? Oh.”

She grinned, hit the tiny green phone symbol, and only had to wait a second before a soft buzzing noise came from Harry’s pocket. He answered it and pressed it up to his ear.

She laughed.

“Hello?” he said into the phone. “ _Hello_?” He waved the phone at her. “No one seems to be on the line.”

She snorted, put the phone to her ear, and said, looking Harry straight in the eye, “You’re barmy.”

His voice drifted through the earpiece with half a second delay, “Tell me you don’t love it, and I’ll stop.”

She gazed at him, the corners of her mouth creasing up in sheer content and happiness. She felt lighter than air, and couldn’t wait for the next time he kissed her.

~*~

The arrival of Victoire Delacour Weasley (just after midnight on Saturday, May 2nd) was the sweetest healing balm for Ginny and her broken family.

Mum didn’t apologize for last Sunday dinner, but she hugged Ginny fiercely, kissed both of her cheeks, and whispered, gazing into her eyes, “She looks just like you did when you were born: perfect, just perfect.”

Victoire was placed gently into her arms, and Ginny felt _big,_ _old_ , _rough,_ much too rough to be handling such a delicate, tiny human being… and yet curiously, she did not want to let her go, did not want to lose sight of her plump cheeks and wispy, strawberry blonde hair, the hazy blue eyes that danced over her features, the rosebud mouth that puckered up at her. This sweet baby was _newness_ and _brightness_ and _promise_ and _future_ , and for the first time in a long time, Ginny felt a strange pull of longing in her heart, quite similar to the feeling she’d been consumed with after watching her first live professional football game at the age of thirteen. She wanted this so badly it hurt, and it stunned her so thoroughly that she could not object when Hermione drew Victoire gently away.

She pushed the thoughts firmly to the back of her mind, and for the remainder of the day, she was quiet inside her head. She went to several memorial services, rested bright, obnoxious flowers on Fred’s tomb, and cried until she had no tears left to shed.

 _I miss you_ , she sent Harry via text later that evening, all tucked into her warm bed, lightheaded and tired.

She smiled when he replied less than a minute later with,

 _I miss you too_.


	2. Part II

**PART II**

They rescheduled their date on two separate occasions because that was adulthood and life was unfair. At first, it was on Ginny, who’d been stuck with a dreaded double shift (on account of Verity calling out sick), and knew there was no way she could keep herself awake through a late film. Then it was Harry, who’d fallen down a flight of stairs chasing a perpetrator the night prior, and while he miraculously hadn’t broken anything, Ginny could _hear_ the pain in his voice as he apologized a dozen times over for canceling on her.

Finally, after a month of texting and long, late-night phone calls, a date was set and the day dawned without incident. The sky was clear and bright, the birds outside her window chirped gaily. It would have been a great indication for how their rendezvous was likely to go, if only she wasn’t literally sick with nerves.

Ginny lingered in bed until late afternoon, nibbling on ginger biscuits and sipping chamomile tea in hopes her stomach would settle. When she forced herself to get up, it felt like she was walking in slow motion. Tiredness gripped her so savagely that she almost fell over getting into the tub, and she dozed in the warm, lavender scented bath until the very last minute.   

It took her longer than she’d care to admit deciding on what to wear and what accessories to don, how to style her hair and exactly how much makeup she was willing to wear, partly because she was indecisive, but mostly from an abnormal lack of focus. When she finally slipped into the sunflower printed dress that Luna had bestowed her last Christmas and stepped into a pair of strappy leather sandals, she still had to wait an agonizing twenty minutes for Harry to arrive at the predetermined pickup time.

She would have begun to pace, but nausea quaked her stomach, and she collapsed onto the living room sofa to take deep, steadying breaths.

Hermione, curled up on a squashy armchair with an unopened book, watched her with an amused glint in her eyes.

“Do you think he’ll expect sex at the end of tonight?” Ginny blurted. She raised her arms to stare at her trembling hands.

_God_. She should have canceled again. She was a mess.

Hermione sat up and frowned worriedly at her. “I don’t think he’s like that.”

“How would you know, anyway?” Ginny snapped. She ran her fingers through her hair for something to do and promptly trapped her peridot pinky ring in her hair. “ _Fuck_.”

“You asked, didn’t you?” Hermione said patiently. She reached over and untangled Ginny in two easy flicks of her wrist. “I met up with him and Ron for lunch the other day.”

“That so?” Ginny tried in vain not to sound jealous.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. “He seems like a decent bloke. He even asked Ron permission to take you out.”

Ginny felt very hot and cold all at once. “He asked Ron _what_?”

Hermione looked like she desperately wanted to laugh.

“I thought it was sweet.”

“It’s not,” Ginny said firmly. “I don’t-he doesn’t-why would he _do_ that? I’m not some… some _possession_!”

“Look,” Hermione explained, “when it comes down to it, he and Ron have to work closely together every day. Hiding something like this wouldn’t bode well for their partnership.”

Ginny worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Why were boys so _stupid_?

“I suppose. But asking _permission_?”

Hermione smacked her on the arm. “Stop biting your lip!”

“Shite! Did I mess up my lipstick?”

Ginny hurried to the hallway mirror just as a knock sounded at the door. She jumped and whirled to look at Hermione, her heart slapping hard against her ribcage.

“What do I do?” she whispered, on the verge of being violently sick. “ _What do I do_?”

“Did you pack any condoms?”

“ _What_?” she squawked.

“Just in case!”

Ginny grabbed her soft brown purse from the overcrowded coat rack. “Yes, _yes_ ,” she answered frantically, peering into the bag.

Hermione flapped her hands at the door. “Then answer it!”

A deep breath. Another. Then, Ginny reached out to turn the knob.

Harry stood in the open doorway, looking like a dream in dark rinse jeans, light blue oxford (rolled perfectly at the elbow), and his charming, albeit nervous grin. He held a bouquet of red roses, and Ginny took them shakily, her heart going a mile a minute.

_Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out._

“Hi,” said Harry.

She exhaled hard. “Hi.”

His smile widened, and he gestured in her direction. “If I’d known you liked sunflowers that much…”

It took her a second to realize what he meant by that.

“Oh!” She went to press the flowers up to her nose, then thought better of it. “The dress was a gift. I’ve never worn it before. I thought today should warrant something new.”

“It looks nice. _You_ look nice. Pretty! Very pretty.”

She didn’t realize her shoulders were so tense until they dropped, and she giggled as his face darkened with color. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek for his troubles.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the flowers… and the compliments.”

“You’re welcome,” he said earnestly.

They beamed at each other for what felt like an eternity. If it wasn’t for the soft cough Hermione supplied, it might’ve lasted that long.

Harry blinked as his gaze shifted over to her. “Hermione! How are you?”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Noticed I’m here, have you?” She turned to Ginny, eyes twinkling. “Want me to put those in water for you?”

They left quickly after that, Hermione waving them off with a Cheshire-like grin and shooting Ginny an exaggerated wink.

They stepped out of her building, and Harry couldn’t contain his laughter any longer.

“Caught that, did you?” Ginny said, squinting through the sudden sunlight.

Harry snorted. “She’s not exactly subtle.”

“No, she’s not,” Ginny responded fondly. She adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder while Harry fished around in his pocket. “I reckon that’s why Hermione’s perfect for Ron.”

“They’re great together,” Harry agreed. He dug out a ring of keys from his jeans. “I’m just up the street. Ready?”

She nodded and risked taking his hand. He looked staggered but pleased all the same.

“Hermione mentioned you had lunch with her and Ron the other day?” she said by way of conversation, skirting a tuft of weeds on the pavement.

“Yeah, we were patrolling near her building when Ron’s stomach started going off, so we decided to stop at the pub on the corner. Have you been there before?”

“The Leaky Cauldron? Yes, I have,” she said. “I work just two streets over.”

There was a small bite to her words, and she hated herself for it.

Harry shot her a startled look and said, “I… Ron didn’t know about us.”

She slid her hand out of his and tucked a strand of hair more firmly behind her ear, then crossed her arms over her chest.

Harry reached out and gently pulled her to a stop. “I would have invited you along if he had.”

Ginny refused to meet his eye. There was a long silence in which she concentrated on the feel of his thumb caressing her arm. She knew she was being an idiot, and _Christ_ , they hadn’t even made it to his car yet, but she was worn-out from work, felt like the biggest pile of dung, and her emotions were all over the place; the only thing she’d wanted since she’d met Harry was to have him all to herself.

“Are you upset with me?”

“No,” she said, finally looking up at him. “I… sorry, I’m being stupid.”

“What’s wrong?” His eyes searched hers, his countenance drawn with concern.

A breeze blew her hair into her face, and she impatiently pushed it aside.

“I didn’t want to share you. All right?”

“ _What_?”

“Like I said, it’s stupid.” Her ring got caught in her hair again, and tears of frustration burned at her eyes. “ _I’m_ stupid.”

“Ginny, you’re not stupid.”

She managed to yank herself free, gritting her teeth against the sharp pain in her scalp.

“Selfish, then,” she muttered.

Her chest was tightening now; she knew exactly what was coming and had no way to stop it. Two triggers in a row… and tipping back in time was as quick as a gunshot.

Her ears rang with screams, her mind’s eye swam with the vision of Fred’s pale, bloodied face.

_Selfish girl,_ a high-pitched voice taunted in her aching head. _Now, look what you’ve done._

The hairs on her arms stood on end.

From what sounded like a great distance away, Harry said, “ _Stop_.” The word echoed until she managed to shake herself out of the past. “Don’t you think I’ve wanted you to myself, too?”

She blinked up at him, momentarily blinded by the sun’s glare on Harry’s glasses.

No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

Ginny felt herself sway back dangerously.

Harry slipped his arm around her waist, keeping her upright.

“Ginny?” he said with alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insisted, but the next time she blinked, it took her a staggeringly long time to open her eyes again.

“I’m calling an ambulance.” He sounded as if he were underwater.

“You’ll do no such thing.” She pressed her forehead to his chest, and Harry pulled her close and rubbed her back with heavy strokes. “You made reservations.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

They stayed that way for several minutes, Ginny taking even breaths, Harry running his fingers through her hair. He smelled good. Fresh and clean, like warm linen. She felt herself melt against him, her heartbeat return to normal. All she was left with was the queasy, weird feeling in her stomach and quivering legs.

Ginny pulled away from Harry and looked up into his eyes. They traced her features worryingly, the green in them like a forest after a rainstorm.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” she muttered. “I’ve been so nervous about tonight. I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Harry. “We’re on the same page now, right? You like me, and I like you. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“Right,” she said, nodding.

There was that smile again, soft and sweet and just for her. And then he was holding her jaw with delicate fingers and pressing his lips to hers.

“Let’s get some food in you,” he said when they pulled apart.

Ginny had just enough energy to laugh. “You’re speaking my language.”

They made small talk as Harry drove his gleaming black Bimmer to the McDonald’s off the A30. He congratulated her on the birth of her niece again, (as he had yet to in person), and she proudly showed him a picture of Victoire in the wonky pink cap she’d knitted for her; Harry had the decency not to tease her woebegone attempt, but he looked on the verge of laughter.

In turn, he told her all about his godson, who he looked after on most of his days off. When she asked him if he had a photo of him, Harry handed her his sleek and up-to-date mobile, told her the seven number password to unlock it, and let her scroll through the album that was chockfull of pictures of a chubby-cheeked one year old with soft brown hair and amber eyes.

She grinned at the one of Teddy smearing blue paint right across Harry’s face.

“I have a feeling you started that,” she said, flashing the screen at him. There was a perfect, large handprint of blue on Teddy’s onesie.

Harry glanced over and smiled. “I did, but he took it to another level.”

“D’you want your own someday?” she asked just as they were pulling into the drive thru.

The words came out before she could stop them, and she winced. This was definitely _not_ appropriate first date material to discuss, and if she could rewind the clock, stuff the question back into her mouth, she would have done so in a nanosecond. Asking a loaded question like this was digging a grave for a relationship that hadn’t even started yet.

_It’s all Victoire’s fault_.

Her niece had enthralled her, filled her heart with need, set her mind whirling with the silliest thoughts, occupied her with ideas of having children, and how many she wanted, and how to raise them, and what they would _be_ like. Granted, Ginny only visited these thoughts in the fog between sleeping and waking, but sometimes they were still there upon opening her eyes every morning.

“Yes,” was Harry’s reply, not sounding the least bit offended by the invasive query. “I’ve always wanted a family.”

The inexplicable, vice-like pressure around her chest eased, and she threw him a winning smile.

Over fries and a chocolate shake, Harry told her about being raised by his aunt and uncle and how he was never accepted by them. He didn’t go into much detail. It was left unsaid what had happened to his parents, but she knew from his tone and the way he avoided her eyes that it was something terrible.

“What about you?” he said, crumbling a napkin in his hands. He had finished his food in a matter of minutes.

“Me?”

“You’ve had the opposite upbringing of me. One of seven, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Turned you off to kids?”

Feeling contented after a handful of fries and several large gulps of her drink, Ginny shook her head, leaning back into the leather seat. “Nah. I’m the youngest, and the only girl, so I got plenty of attention. We went without, growing up, but only material things. There was plenty of food and love.”

“So, seven for you, too?”

“For fuck’s sake, _no_.”

By the time they made it to the seaside town of Sidmouth, Ginny felt like herself again. Her nerves and stomach had settled, the nausea cleared off. Harry showed her to a little restaurant with a pretty rooftop garden, and they were seated just in time to watch the sun set over the sea, the sky a brilliant kaleidoscope of marigold and rose before darkening to indigo. Café lights were slung above them, and a large candle held in a hurricane vase upon their table sent flecks of gold shimmering into Harry’s eyes.

While they awaited their food, Harry indulged her in a rapid-fire round of childish first date questions. It was a silly thing, but she was pleased that he had readily agreed to act like a twit with her.

_He’s perfect_ , she thought at once.

_Shut up, shut up. Do not get attached!_

She knew it was a little late for her to continue that argument in her head.

“Right,” Ginny said, clasping her hands and morphing her face into one of serious contemplation. “I believe my twelve year old self would like to know what your favorite color is first.”

“Red. Everywhere. All the time,” said Harry innocently, without missing a beat.

She squinted at him shrewdly, her cheeks heating. “How can you keep such a straight face with that filthy mouth?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, all right,” she said dubiously, but internally, she was _screaming_. And hot. So, _so_ hot. “Favorite movie?”

“Isn’t it my turn?”

“Fine.”

“Right. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Hey!” she protested, right as their server set a small charcuterie board on their table. Ginny dove straight for the bread and soaked it in the dish of oil and herbs. “That was _my_ question!”

“Still my turn, and I can ask what I like, thanks.”

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” Ginny said instantly. “2005.”

“2005?”

“You have to clarify which _Pride and Prejudice_! There are so many to choose from!”

“And what makes that one better than the others?” Harry said, then popped a piece of salami and cheese in his mouth.

“The hands! The _hands_ , Harry!”

Harry’s mouth quirked up at one corner as he finished his bite. “Dare I ask about the _hands_?”

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “They’re so good. What exemplary flexing on Matthew McFadden’s part.” She dropped her fake faint to tear a bite of her bread. “What about you?”

“ _Hot Fuzz_ ,” he said. “It never gets old.”

She gulped back her food to hastily respond, “That’s such a good movie! The part where he drop-kicks the only lady-”

“Yes, exactly!”

“ _Yarp_ , exactly.”

They snickered, and Ginny found herself leaning forward, wishing he were closer. As if he could sense her desire, Harry stood without preamble, walked around the table, and slipped into the chair beside her.

“This all right?” he asked her.

Without answering, Ginny tucked herself into his side and shyly looked up at him, her mind going into a hazy, warm place now that he surrounded her with his scent and touch and deep voice.

_Safe. I’m safe_ , she thought with his eyes flickering over her face, lingering on her mouth, and meeting her gaze again.

She had felt this way the last time she was in his presence, when he had grazed her collarbone with delicate fingertips, as if mapping her, as if making sure she was real. When he’d held her to him in her bed, sleepy and sweaty and satisfied. When he’d squeezed her hand on the ride back to her flat from the disastrous dinner at the Burrow. She wondered now, as she rested her chin on his shoulder, if it would always be this way.

She certainly hoped so.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Harry suddenly.

“Like what?”

Harry groaned. “Like _that._ All sweet and innocent and— _fuck_. It makes me want to—”

He broke off abruptly, but Ginny knew exactly where his mind had wandered.

“ _Oh_.”

Her heart began thundering beneath her breast, and her whole body felt like it was being consumed by wildfire. She went scatterbrained for a moment, wondering how quickly they could get back to the car so that he could pull her into his lap and have his way with her...

She pushed the ruminations firmly away. “I don’t want to have sex tonight,” she forced herself to say.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry hastily, looking contrite. “I didn’t—I don’t expect it, and I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, squeezing his other hand. “ _I like it_.”

He inhaled slowly and deeply, as if trying to calm himself, and squeezed her hand back.

“I just think, if we’re trying to have a go at a relationship, maybe we should see how we do. Without sex.”

Ginny bit her lip, awaiting his response.

“I completely agree,” said Harry at once.

Minutes later, they were openly snogging.

Their server appeared out of nowhere, while they were right in the thick of it, and cleared his throat. “Would you like me to pack this up for you?”

Bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, Harry and Ginny left with their steaming meals in takeaway cartons. Upon dropping the food off at the car, they took another moment to snog some more. Harry pinned her against the door with his body, and she had never been dizzier in her life. This was mad. This was too much. She’d never been affected by a man like this before. He held her face delicately in his hands, his thumbs brushing the apples of her cheeks with the softest strokes; he was being so gentle with her, and all Ginny wanted to do was push her knickers aside and—

She gasped and pulled away, bunching his shirt in fists. “I’m dying.”

“What?” said Harry hazily, staring down at her through crooked glasses.

“I mean, you’re killing me. This is killing me.” She gestured wildly between their bodies.

Harry nodded, lips pressed firmly together. “Same,” he said heavily. “Let’s go for a walk.”

They strode hand in hand alongside the clump of shops on the seafront, the whistling salt air whipping their hair into a disarray. Soft, tinkling music of a street band played in the distance. Ginny cooled down, frazzled nerves fizzing out, and hugged his arm to her. Harry dazzled her with a smile, and she was gone again, tiptoeing up to kiss him because _fuck_ if that dimple wasn’t the sexiest thing she’d ever seen…

“Dance with me?” she said as she drew away from him, feeling light, giddy.

She giggled as he pursed his lips. “Don’t you remember me mentioning—”

“That you don’t dance?” she finished. “Yes, of course.”

She fluttered her eyelashes in exaggeration, and he laughed.

“Please?”

His eyes roved over her face, and she tilted her chin up, hoping to entice him into a kiss. “Do you really want to?”

She nodded, and kept her eyes open, half-lidded, to watch him as he met her lips with his. She already knew that he surrendered himself to her every time they kissed, but seeing the expression behind it, the utter tenderness he exuded, was the most magical thing she’d ever witnessed.

They crossed the street and stepped lightly onto the cool sand of the beach. Ginny stooped to remove her sandals, and Harry took them from her hands, hooking his arms around her waist as soon as she stood again. She curled her arms around his shoulders, pressed herself against him, and together they began to sway to the music that drifted over them in the breeze.

“Not so bad, is it?” she asked him sometime later, lifting her head from his chest to gaze up at him and the stars above.

“No,” he admitted softly, ducking slightly to kiss her forehead, then the bridge of her nose, then her cheeks. She reached up again, quickly closing the space between their lips.

When they broke apart minutes later, she was gasping and floating on air.

“What’s your favorite flower?” said Harry softly.

Ginny blinked. “I'm sorry, what?”

His right hand drifted up from her waist, to the back of her neck, then to her shoulder, where he fingered the strap of her dress. Ginny shifted her shoulder forward so that it slipped down her arm, and Harry’s fingertips immediately spanned over the skin she’d exposed to him.

“I need to know what to get you next time.”

“Oh.” She peered up at him, barely making his features out in the darkness. “Is that your clever way of asking me out again?”

He looked away, over her shoulder. “Unless you don’t want to?”

Ginny had the urge to roll her eyes at him. Hadn’t he noticed what he did to her?

“I’d love to go out with you again.”

They ate the takeaway on the hood of his car, and shared an ice cream before leaving the little town behind for home. Harry parked a ways from her flat in the first available spot and turned off the ignition in slight resignation. They sat in silence for a moment, just staring at one another. Then Ginny leaned over the center console and kissed him so thoroughly she surprised even herself with the intensity. Harry responded in kind, moaning into her mouth and unbuckling both of their seatbelts with fumbling fingers.

She climbed into his lap, holding his face with both of her hands as his arms wound around her to steady her, pull her closer, and settle her tightly against him.

She pressed urgently against him, shaking all over, her brain clouded with desire.

“I don’t want to have sex,” she said through her gasps of pleasure. “I want to have a… a proper first date, with a proper ending.”

“Proper?” he said, tearing his tantalizing mouth away from hers to blaze a trail of hot kisses down her throat.

She groaned, rolled her hips hard, and spluttered with laughter when Harry swore against her chest.

“You’re going to have to get off of me,” he said, his hands still gripping her arse. “I’m not pushing you away. I can’t.”

She stilled and let her forehead fall against his. “You’re torturing me.”

“ _I’m_ torturing _you_?”

Harry walked her to her door after they smoothed their rumpled clothes and hugged her tightly under the darkened awning. She buried her nose against his shirt and breathed him in, hoping to ingrain his scent into her very being.

“Next Saturday feels like a lifetime away,” she mumbled against his chest. They’d settled on the same place and time for next week, with Ginny demanding to treat him for their second date, to which Harry had agreed to with a breath of exasperation.

“It does,” said Harry. He pressed a kiss to her hairline, against her temple, and lingered on her cheek before his arms slackened.

She stepped out of them completely before she lost herself, threw herself at him, begged him to follow her upstairs.

“I guess this is it,” she said glumly.

“Yeah,” he said, equally miserable.

They stared at each other for several minutes.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she finally managed.

“Goodnight, Ginny.”

.~*~.

The following Saturday found Ginny utterly incapacitated. She spent the entire morning in the bathroom, vomiting so much that she feared the next thing that she’d spew would be her very intestines. The last thing she wanted to do was cancel on Harry, but it was already half past four, and she was only just beginning to feel marginally better.

Hermione fetched Ginny’s mobile while she loitered in the bath. She felt like she was going to pass out any minute as she reached for it, and as if sensing this, Hermione sat on the edge of the tub and frowned down at her.

“Harry?” she said into the phone when he picked up.

“Hey. I’m just getting off work. Is everything all right?”

His voice sounded so lovely that she wanted to cry.

“I’m sick,” she croaked. “I’m sorry this is such late notice, but I don’t think tonight is a good idea.”

“What’s wrong?” he said, sounding alarmed.

Ginny did not get to answer him. A bout of nausea rose tsunami-like within her. She thrust her phone at Hermione, leaned over the tub, and dry heaved into the wastebasket. Distantly, she heard Hermione explaining the situation. When Ginny felt like she could remove her head from the bin again, Hermione was placing the mobile on the counter.

“He’s coming over,” Hermione said, shoving Ginny’s shabby towel at her.

“What?” she cried. She hurried to stand from the bath, but froze as her stomach contracted. “ _Fuck_.”

Ginny gagged and went into a coughing fit. Hermione managed to help her from the tub, grumbling about _leftover takeaway_ and _self-control_ and _just like Ron_. Ginny had only just thrown on her soft, gnome-printed nightgown when there was a knock at the front door.

Harry stood in her bedroom doorway a minute later, still in his bobby uniform of standard black trousers and a button-down white shirt. He held a brown paper bag carefully in his hands.

“I brought you soup,” he said, offering her a gentle smile.

Ginny burst into a bout of unexpected tears.

.~*~.

She woke slowly, reluctantly, from the best sleep she’d had in recent memory. Cocooned in several blankets, unsure which way was up or down, Ginny nuzzled a particularly warm bit of fabric that she’d clenched in her fists, intent on falling back into her deep slumber when something hard and unwelcome bit into her cheek.

“Mmph.”

A weight she hadn’t noticed before shifted up and over her side. Her eyes fluttered open at the movement, and she met the deep and calming evergreen gaze of Harry.

“Hi,” he whispered, his voice gravely from sleep. She felt his hand sift gently through her hair and tingles ran down her spine. “How are you feeling?”

She shifted closer to him, and he wrapped her tightly in his arms.

“Better,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Thank you for staying with me.”

He pressed his lips to her temple in reply.

They drifted in and out of sleep a little longer, and it was nearing seven when Harry rose to warm some soup for them both. Ginny wondered how she’d gotten so lucky, and when she convinced him to stay the night, she thanked him again.

“You don’t— _fuck_ , Ginny—you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she said, lips trailing over his hipbone, muffled by the duvet.

She heard his breath hitch when she ran her hand over him. “But you aren’t feeling well.”

“I feel so much better now, actually, thanks to your wonderful mothering skills.”

“ _But_ —”

Ginny rolled her eyes and went still. “Do you really want me to stop?”

Silence.

She giggled and resumed the task at hand.

.~*~.

The next two weeks were a blur of lunch dates, double dates, dinners and films. Harry and Ginny fell into a remarkably easy relationship, one bursting with fun and laughter and pure happiness. For once, Ginny wasn’t always the first to call or text, and she didn’t have to beg her boyfriend to spend time with her. He always wanted to be with her, and she found that to be _astounding._ He liked her, and she liked him, and anyone who looked at the two of them together could probably _feel_ it. She’d met Teddy, who took to her immediately, and Harry was introduced as Ginny’s boyfriend to family last Sunday, to which everyone approved of quite heartily. Everything was going so perfectly, so smoothly.

Ginny should have known better.

Through a raffle at work, Harry won two tickets to the Great Spring Show. They traveled to London by train on a wet Saturday morning, made it there with enough time to drop their bags off at the hotel and stare longingly at the large bed, then climbed into a taxi for the show, hiding yawns behind cold hands.

After being admitted into a grand marquee, Harry left her at the first display (of a giant teapot suspended in midair, pouring violet geraniums) and returned with two paper cups of tea. She snuggled up underneath his arm, and he kissed the crown of her head as they ambled to the next display.

“This is amazing,” she declared, gaping at two people in hedge trimming costumes. They waved at Ginny, and she waved back, delighted. “Have you ever been before?”

“No,” he said, smiling at her and pulling her closer. “Another first for us. Do you like it? We could come again next year.”

Ginny felt very warm, and it had nothing to do with her drink.

She peered up at him. “Next year?”

Harry flushed but met her eyes and held her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” she said, and tiptoed up to kiss his stubbly cheek.

They passed bushes of blood red roses trimmed down to resemble hearts and a pair of doves made up of powder white peonies before stopping at a small chapel constructed entirely of pink hydrangeas.

“Can we go in?” Harry asked the elderly man standing by the flower archway.

The man permitted them entry. Inside, the scent of flowers was thick and heady. Behind velvet ropes, four pews of woven branches sat in the nave and faced an altar made of moss. A small group of old women passed them on their way out.

Harry and Ginny were alone.

“You’re not going to propose, are you?” said Ginny jokingly.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Er, no. Not that the idea didn’t immediately cross my mind.”

She choked on the sip of tea she’d just taken.

“You okay?” Harry said, patting her back.

“Yes,” she said in a rasp. “Yes, of course.”

Harry smiled at her nervously. “I do have something… something important to tell you. Talk to you about. More than one. Yeah.”

Ginny absolutely adored it when he got all flustered.

“You have several important things you wish to discuss with me?” she interpreted.

Harry’s tense shoulders drooped slightly in relief. “Yes, exactly that.”

She had no idea what he had in mind, but he seemed so serious, and nervous, that a shot of anxiety flooded her veins. Unfortunately, a family of four entered the tiny flower chapel, and the solitude was broken with the piercing, jubilant exclamation of a child.

“Later?” she said.

Harry nodded.

They continued to peruse the show, and went outside when the drizzly rain had finally ceased. The smell of wet earth made her stomach churn, but she inhaled and exhaled slowly, and managed to push the feeling aside long enough to finish the show. Harry watched her worriedly the entire time. Even while paying an astronomical price for a potted hybrid tea rose bush, he threw her glance after glance at her over his shoulder.

“We didn’t have to stay so long,” Harry said to her as they waited for a taxi, frowning down at her as she pressed her hand over her mouth.

She squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of nausea crashed and clawed its way up her throat. Harry rubbed her back in long, slow circles with one hand, and frantically waved his other at a black taxi ambling towards them, the bag containing the rose bush swinging wildly at his elbow. She couldn’t tell for sure if it was the bout of sickness she’d been fighting for several weeks now, or the anticipation of her talk with Harry, but one thing was certain: She was getting awfully sick of being sick.

The inside of the cab did not provide her any relief. It smelled horrible, all cigarette smoke and grease soaked into the seats, the air stale, stuffy. She winced with every bump, every sharp turn. Ginny ended up hiding her entire face in Harry’s coat, her breath rattling against his sternum.

“You canceled your doctor’s appointment last week, didn’t you?” There was a hint of resignation in his voice. He ran his fingertips through her hair. “Ginny…” he sighed.

She concentrated on the feel of his blunt nails raking over her scalp as the cabbie took a sharp left turn.

“I had to cover,” she mumbled. “Verity’s grandmum passed away, and George was out of town.”

“I think I’m going to have a talk with your brother.”

She shifted enough to look up at him. “What for?”

“He needs to hire more workers. You’re going to kill yourself at the rate you’re going.”

Ginny did not feel the need to mention that George had already spoken to her about getting more help for the shop and how absolutely against it she was. She owed it to George, and to Fred, to pull her weight, especially after everything that had happened, after everything she’d done.

She’d been targeted because of her smart mouth, but it was her selfishness that had gotten Fred killed. She insisted upon a member of her family always attending her matches, and Fred was up. He’d flown in from a business meeting in Scotland, arrived just as the game started, wearing her jersey and a smile, perched proudly in the very first row. And then…

“It’s just food poisoning, Harry,” she insisted, wrenching herself out of the past.

“You can’t diagnosis yourself,” said Harry sharply. “And that was weeks ago. This has to be something else.”

“I’m fine,” she said stubbornly.

They arrived at the hotel and climbed the stairs to their room in a surly silence. The plan had been so simple when they’d arranged this trip: Check in, see the show, and finally, _finally_ break the sex fast Ginny had been adamant on maintaining since their fateful first night together. Now, the idea of getting into bed and sleeping off this strange feeling curdling in the pit of her stomach was the only thing on her mind.

She toed off her low, sensible heels, let her coat pool on the floor by their luggage, and began turning down the sheets. Indifferent to the copious wrinkles her day dress was about to acquire, Ginny climbed halfway into bed. She looked over at Harry, still standing by the door, watching her and shifting from foot to foot.

“What’s up with you?” Semi-jokingly, she added, “You don’t have some secret lovechild I need to know about, do you?”

The words that left her mouth jogged something in the back of her brain, but the elusive thought slipped away before she could further analyze it.

“What?” he said, eyebrows drawing together with confusion. “No, of course, I don’t.”

“Then what is it?” she said.

“You stopped playing football.”

She fell the remainder of the way into bed, almost in a spasm. The memory of That Night banged and rallied to be with her again.

“And?” she said tightly, her fingernails digging into the bedsheets, trying to remain present. The screams were vibrating between her ears.

“Why did you quit?”

“You must know about it.” Her hands were trembling now. “Ron must have said something to you.”

“All Ron told me is that you used to play football professionally.” Harry paused, an uncertain look on his face. “I just… look, I put it together a few weeks ago. I can’t believe it took me so long. And… I wanted to let you know that I was there. The night of your last game.”

Ginny froze. “To watch or…?”

“Not to watch, no.”

“So...” She stared at him. “You were security?”

He nodded and said no more. Maybe he wasn’t allowed, maybe he wanted her to come to the conclusion herself, maybe he couldn’t bring himself to _say_ it. But he was being so cryptic that everything pointed to the possibility that _he saved my life, he killed Riddle_.

“I’ve been hoping you’d bring it up. That Night. I’ve been giving you opportunities left, right, and center.”

“My brother died,” she whispered, “right in front of me. It’s hard for me to talk about. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” Harry said. “But you almost died, too.”

“And you saved me?”

“I got the order.”

“The order?”

“To take the shot.”

~.*.~

_The_ boom _across the stadium resonated in her head, rebounded in her chest. She could feel the heat of the blast against her back, and smoke quickly filled the column of her throat. She ran towards the madness, choking, eyes stinging. Fred was there. Fred was there!_

_Her ears were still ringing when she finally found him, covered in blood and debris. He looked at her, felt his hand grapple with hers just before his eyes went blank, and then…_

_Her scalp was on fire; it was Riddle. He twisted his long fingers in her hair and yanked, rambling at her, breath hot in her ear as she fought against him and screamed._

_“Stupid girl.”_

_“Think you can best me.”_

_“Should’ve kept your trap shut.”_

_“Selfish girl.”_

_“Now, look what you’ve done.”_

_He slammed the heel of his hand against the base of her skull. Ginny cried out, the corners of her vision growing dark as he drove her out at arm’s length and forced her to survey the damage, the carnage._

_“This is your fault, you—”_

_She felt the wind, the thrust, the splatter of hot, sticky blood against the back of her arm before she registered the thundering crack of the gun. Riddle was still gripping her hair as he flew sideways, tumbled, dead in an instant, and the momentum knocked her over, hard, all wrong, her knee bending, then snapping, as she fell, too…_

~.*.~

“You looked so familiar, even in the darkness at Lee’s party that night,” Harry said.

Ginny pressed her eyes shut hard, focusing on the sound of Harry’s voice to launch herself out of her worst memory.

“I was going to ask you,” he continued. She heard his feet shuffle nearer, felt the bed sink beside her. She scrabbled for his hand and anchored herself to Earth, to Harry. “Maybe we’d met before, crossed paths a long time ago. But then you drove me to utter distraction. And then that dinner at your parents’ happened. And then…”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I never meant to keep any of this from you.”

“I’m not mad,” she said. She turned towards him, looked at him. His face was drawn with concern, a furrow just between his eyebrows. “You don’t have to apologize. Really. I just… I go there a lot, to That Night. My mind just takes me there. Leaves me there. It’s hard to come out of it.”

Harry nodded. “It happens to me, too.”

They eased themselves into bed. Ginny found it hard to move in her day dress. Harry helped her strip out of it.

Ginny unbuttoned his shirt, returning the favor.

Their eyes locked as fingers found pulse points, sharp jawlines, lips. Ginny ran her index finger down his long nose, up again, then traced over the scar on his forehead. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

She withdrew her hand anyway. Harry caught her fingers and began kissing the tips.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. “Your scar?”

He pressed his mouth to the middle of her palm.

“No,” said Harry. “Just a phantom pain every now and again.”

“How did you get it?”

“Riddle killed my parents,” said Harry.

A bolt of horror shot through her, and Ginny hitched herself up on her elbows. She opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say, what to do.

“ _What_?” she finally exclaimed. “He _what_?”

“When I was little, he staged it to look like an accident. I was in the car with them…. The details are scarce, but he picked the perfect night. The road was slick with rain, and there’s a sharp, twisting road in Godric’s Hollow—”

“But why? Why would he kill them?”

Harry gave her a look. “They were famous detectives back in their day, linked a string of murders to one of his advisors. And they spoke out against his ideologies to the media.”

Ginny shrank back. She remembered the reporter who’d started it all, clear as day: pale, taunting face, and slicked back platinum blond hair. It was the first conference of the season, and she had been on edge all day, hoping to make a good impression.

She’d definitely made _an_ impression.

_“What’s it like to be the only white, English player on your team?” the man had shouted from the front row._

_The buzz in the room cut off, as if someone had hit a mute button._

_“Well, I’m not a twat, white supremacist like that shite politician Riddle,” she’d said, leaning into her mic, “so I think it’s fucking amazing, yeah?”_

She’d drawn nervous laughter from the crowd, and that was it. That was all she’d said. And it had painted a bright red target right on her back.

“How did he get away with it?” she asked him sometime later, when her brain had done what it could to process this horrible connection she and Harry had.

“He paid off the right people.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Why me though?”

“What?” said Harry.

“Plenty of people have said worse,” she elaborated. “So, why me?”

“I think he was just… unhinged. Everything set him off.” He gave her an apologetic smile, his gaze somber. “You were the last straw on the camel’s back.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, settling back into bed, curling into him like a cat desperate for a stroke, “about your parents.”

“I’m sorry about your brother.”

He kissed her on her forehead and pulled her closer.

They stayed that way for a while, until Ginny became restless and stretched out so that their legs could tangle, and she could align with him, beating hearts and quick, eager mouths. It wasn’t supposed to start like this, or end like this, or be anything like this at all. But then his hand drifted over her hips and between her legs, and he touched her just how she liked. She couldn’t say no, wouldn’t say no. This was the perfect escape. Just her and Harry and a soft bed.

She plucked his glasses from him and sighed into his mouth as he rolled them over and settled, skin to skin, in the space between her thighs. Her knickers were at the end of the bed, his boxers discarded long ago. How long had they been kissing, drawing gasps, moaning into each other’s bare, heated flesh? Ginny threw the glasses aside and looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

Harry’s brown face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark from pupils blown with desire.

“I need you,” he said. “ _Fuck_ , Gin.”

He was unraveling, fast, with just a teasing shift beneath him.

Ginny felt hot all over. This was not going to last long.

“Condom?” she said breathlessly, diving a hand between them to give him a hard tug.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said again. “No. I thought you were on the Pill?”

“What gave you that idea?” she asked him, the cloud of longing beginning to thin…

Harry gave her a quizzical look. “Our first time together. You said we didn’t need a condom.”

“What? Harry, why would I say that?”

“Because… because you’re on the Pill.”

“I’m not on the Pill.”

They stared at one another, and the shoe was beginning to drop. Several times. All over them. Right onto their faces.

Ginny pushed Harry off of her. “What the fuck, Harry? What the _fuck_?”

“I asked you! I asked you if you wanted a condom, and you said no!”

“No,” Ginny said, shaking her head, shaking everywhere. “No. You asked me if I _had_ any condoms, and I said no.”

They stood on either side of the bed, naked, panting, gaping at one another because…

“You’re pregnant,” Harry said through a delirious laugh. “You’ve been sick for weeks. You’re _pregnant_.”

She began to shake her head. “No way.”

“Yes.”

“There’s no way.”

“Ginny.”

She was, she was, she _was_.

“Oh my god.”

Harry began to throw on his clothes in a mad frenzy, stuffed his glasses onto his face. “I’m going to the chemist.”

Ginny, trembling like a leaf, started to tug on her clothes, too. “I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll get the test, I’ll—”

“It’s my body,” Ginny said forcefully. “I’ll take it wherever the hell I want.”

Harry paused to look at her, one hand on the bed, the other tugging on a trainer. “Yeah. All right. Let’s go.”

The walk to the chemist was a quick five minute jaunt. Harry and Ginny’s hands clung together the entire way there, through the family planning section, to the register, and finally, towards the loos at the back of the shop. A box of freshly bought pregnancy tests was tucked beneath her armpit.

“We could do it at the hotel,” Harry said urgently under his breath.

“I can’t stand to wait,” she hissed back, and turned to the bathrooms.

Harry pulled her back to him. “Whatever the outcome,” he said, “whatever you want.”

She nodded at him, suddenly tearful. “Okay.”

He kissed her, then let her go.

~.*.~

“Listen, About That Night—”

“It was brilliant. _This_ is brilliant.”

Her hand fluttered to her stomach, to settle over Harry’s.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned on writing more on this ending, but it’s simple, and sweet, and I like it like that.   
> Thanks again to the wonderful thedistantdusk who beta’d for me again and made this story a hundred times better. And thanks to everyone who read and left such lovely reviews!


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